


Don't Be a Wet Salad

by Rokutagrl



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Background Relationships, Fluff and Humor, Kuroo is a smitten kitten, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 17:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20998244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokutagrl/pseuds/Rokutagrl
Summary: Kuroo holds back an impressed whistle.“You work at the tattoo shop,” he says instead. His face burns when he realizes his first words were not the standard, corporate approved greeting. Bokuto doesn't seem to mind.“Yep,” he says, distractedly, “I help run it with Akashi.”His wide eyes run the length of the board, darting about every which way. Bokuto's gaze never seems to settle and Kuroo wonders if he can read like that.When he asks, Bokuto goes pink about the ears.“I'm new,” Bokuto says. This, Kuroo knows. Someone like Bokuto is hard to forget. “To coffee,” he clarifies with a shrug. Kuroo's not really sure if it was a necessary addition, or even sensical, but god if he doesn't feel some type of way just listening to this man talk.“Tea drinker?” Kuroo asks, grinning.Bokuto grimaces. “Not a chance. Stuffs like drinking a wet salad.”After an incident at his job, Kuroo gets to know the cute tattoo artist across the street a little better.





	Don't Be a Wet Salad

**Author's Note:**

> *dumps this and runs*

“Uh-huh,” Kuroo agrees. It's been so long since he's used his phone to actually call someone that the irritation against his ear feels raw despite how shortly he's been using it. Quickly, Kuroo switches to his left ear and laughs quietly into the receiver, “It sure is a sight. I thought it was a myth, you know? Oh my,” his mouth pulls along both syllables as long as it'll stretch. 

The brunette in front of him narrows his eyes up at Kuroo, fingers curling down impatiently against the laminate wood. Watercolor petals and inked vines shine beautifully under the dusty sunlight, all the way down the length of his arm until they wrap around each digit like rings. 

The guy's companion hasn't stopped scowling up into the other's hairline since Kuroo had come to their rescue. Kuroo grins. 

“No, no, I'm still here,” he assures the person on the other line. “Yes, so are they. Don't think they're going anywhere. Like I said,” he squints between them—what little space there is—and tries to hide his amused smirk by switching ears again,”they're very stuck. The stuckiest.” 

“Tell hi—” the brunette starts, only for his companion to yowl, choking on, “don't spe—!” 

“He's writing something,” Kuroo narrates. 

The brunette waves the now ink filled napkin at Kuroo. Instinctively he moves forward to hand it off, but this jolts the darker haired man to follow. There isn't much give between them, what with their mouths held fast together by golden ringlets. Sun glares off their combined jewelry, directly into Kuroo’s eyes and—Ok, _ serves him right. _

Kuroo takes the paper and recites in as a dry tone he can conjure, “Get your ass over here and help me, you owl turd.”

The other line erupts in the loudest, gut deep laughter Kuroo has heard in ages. He checks briefly to see if he somehow _ cheeked _ the speaker icon. Even at a distance, Kuroo can hear the laughter ringing. 

“Ok, bye bye.” Kuroo hangs up. “You’re welcome,” he tells the two, one glaring straight at him, the other _ trying _to from the corner of his one visible eye. 

“You—” the brunette starts before the darker haired man slaps the table as a reminder. But that's a whole other mistake, because the brunette jumps and they both yelp as their mouths tug away from each other, and then collide.

Kuroo slips his phone into his apron pocket, biting down his laughter. 

* * *

“Thank _ god, _” Kenma groans, slinking over to his usual table, turning his chair to sit up against the wall. 

Kuroo chuckles as Kenma quickly summons his DS from his pocket. There's a minute of eight bit music before he kills the sound. 

“I thought they'd be here forever,” Kenma sighs, resting his head back. Above him this month's current art exhibit sits, a cross-stitched masterpiece that proudly exclaims, _ Damn _with an appropriately centered rainbow accompanying it. 

“They're still here,” Kuroo reminds him, falling back into the empty chair across from him. He rests his broom up against the wall and it tilts down and away from him, catching on the main door’s frame. “And I think they can hear you,” he leans back, mirroring his friend.

Kenma looks up at the group now huddled a few feet towards the room's center with a tempered scowl. “That’ll teach them to make out in public.” He returns back to his game, unbothered. 

One of them mutters. Probably a complaint. 

“Hold still,” their newest member chastises them. Kuroo’s never heard someone sound so cheerful and commanding before. 

_ Bokuto _ . Kuroo remembers the name from the first napkin that had been thumped against his chest, the demand, _ call him _ underlined twice. 

So late into the evening, the sun has hidden itself quite well behind the taller buildings in the shopping center. He looks through the window sitting between himself and Kenma, watching as people hurry on their way home from work. He thinks about double checking to see if he really did turn the open sign over to closed, but Kenma will just call him paranoid again. 

Kuroo turns at a flash of light. The flashlight of a phone hits him in the eyes. One of the two guys holds it up higher while Bokuto works. Kuroo snickers. Someone had told him the first time he complained about the dim lighting of the café's interior, trying to scrub down the dark counters, that it was for the _ ambiance _. 

He's not sure ‘_ It's too dark for customers to find the connection between two lip rings that idiots got stuck together while making out,’ _would be adequate enough of a reason to get the owner to shell out for better lighting. 

“And—!” Bokuto says, somehow sounding like he's got an ensemble drum roll on his payroll, “we're done!” 

The bell above the entrance door chimes and slams shut as the darker haired man rushes out immediately after being extracting from his other half. 

It chimes again, a second later, and he's back. Kuroo sees the scarlet hue to his face just before he doubles over in a half body bow. 

“Very sorry for causing trouble!” he shouts. The door slams back shut. Kuroo watches him stiffly power walk past the window. Kenma looks up for only a second, shrugging when Kuroo meets his eyes. 

“That adorable brat,” the other scowls, chasing after his _ boyfriend? _out the door. He doesn't come back. 

Bokuto pulls off his sanitary gloves and drops them in the nearby receptacle. He is a built man, the light weather jacket he's wearing perhaps a size too small to contain his arms. He grins at the two of them at the table, resting his hand on his hip as he says, “Thanks for helping Oikawa!” 

_ Confidence _exudes from this man.

Kenma doesn't look up. “You did all the work.”

“He's right,” Kuroo nods, folding his arms over his chest. “I wasn't going to touch them with my bare hands.” 

Bokuto cocks a dark eyebrow. A single, sterling silver stud raises with it. “This place doesn't have sanitary gloves?” 

Kuroo feels his eyes widen. “No, no we do. Let me rephrase. I wasn't going to touch them.” 

Kenma snorts. Bokuto lets out a short, coughing laugh. 

“I've got to get back and finish closing up,” Bokuto tells them, waving. Kuroo sees him to the door. Watching the man jog lightly across the street is just an added bonus for his trouble. Bokuto makes it two stores down before disappearing into the tattoo and piercing parlor over there. 

Kuroo checks the sign on the outside of the door before grabbing for the abandoned broom and gets back to sweeping. Kenma turns the volume back up on his DS, and Kuroo sweeps in tune to the background music of TWEWY. 

When he looks up, Kenma catches his stare. 

“Yes,” he says. “You remembered to change the sign.”

* * *

Bokuto grins at him from the other side of the counter the next morning, just a little bit too brightly that Kuroo feels himself go still like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“Morning!” he greets, cheerily, his voice reverberating over the humdrum of customers who's outdoor voices are barely half what Kuroo suspects is Bokuto’s indoor volume. 

Sans his jacket, Kuroo's eyes lead him to Bokuto's well inked, _ well _muscled arm. 

_ Damn _. 

Oikawa's arms had been intricate, beautifully rendered plants that somehow danced between each other as if they had grown together in the wild. Bokuto's different, an eclectic mess of interests and loud colors buzzing up and down the length of his arms, curving at his shoulders and blending into his natural skin. 

Kuroo holds back an impressed whistle.

“You work at the tattoo shop,” he says instead. His face burns when he realizes his first words were not the standard, corporate approved greeting. Bokuto doesn't seem to mind. 

“Yep,” he says, distractedly, “I help run it with Akashi.”

His wide eyes run the length of the board, darting about every which way. Bokuto's gaze never seems to settle and Kuroo wonders if he can read like that. 

When he asks, Bokuto goes pink about the ears. 

“I'm new,” Bokuto says. This, Kuroo knows. Someone like Bokuto is hard to forget. “To coffee,” he clarifies with a shrug. Kuroo's not really sure if it was a necessary addition, or even sensical, but _ god _ if he doesn't feel some type of way just listening to this man talk. 

“Tea drinker?” Kuroo asks, grinning. 

Bokuto grimaces. “Not a chance. Stuffs like drinking a wet salad.” 

“That's a new one,” Kuroo snorts. “A caffeinated, wet salad.”

Bokuto laughs. It is every bit as loud and twice as infectious in person. 

“I don't usually take any caffeine,” Bokuto admits, leaning on the counter just a bit.

“Can't relate. I'm on the waitlist for an IV drip,” Kuroo grins. He too leans forward on the counter, crossing an arm in front of him and resting his cheek against the other. Kuroo breathes in and it is amazing that under the burnt coffee and the settled scent of wood around them, that he can smell the thick, heady cologne clinging about Bokuto. “Did you want a recommendation?” 

“Sure!” 

Kuroo pulls back, grabbing for a small cup and writing the man's name across the bend of it with directions for Daisho working on orders in the back. Bokuto watches excitedly as he hands it off.

Those eyes, Kuroo thinks, are so bright, so bewitching when they fixate on him that he is so very, very glad when Daisho starts up the espresso machine because he thinks his heart could be heard jackhammering away otherwise. He runs his hands against his half apron and swallows thickly. 

At first sip, Bokuto's face is an absolute riot. Kuroo unabashedly asks, “Love it?” 

Just a head and a half shorter, Bokuto squints up at him. “Yes?” 

“You get used to it.” 

Bokuto looks dubious and Kuroo wonders if that's the last time he'll see Bokuto in the shop. 

But it's not. Bokuto waves excitedly at him from the back of the line the next morning, waiting through the before-work rush. He doesn't stay longer than a quick linger at the pick-up station, hopping from foot to foot, but he's gone before Kuroo finishes taking the last order.

Daisho greets Bokuto by name three days later, his two pronged tongue poking through his lips when he smiles. Kuroo grimaces at the sight of it, wiping down the counter after his last transaction. 

Sun hits gently on the wild tips of Bokuto's hair, so silver it makes Kuroo think of tinsel. He bounces right up to the counter and Kuroo reaches for a cup. His stomach ties in knots as he starts with, “Good morning, would you like to try today's special?” 

Bokuto's grin falls into confusion. He squints up at the board for a while, golden eyes darting around. He's so easy to read that Kuroo can see the moment Bokuto spots the display. 

“Oh my _ god,” _he shouts. Kenma at his usual seat bristles at the sudden noise. “I can't believe it!”

“It was my day to come up with something,” Kuroo lilts. He marks the cup all the while grinning at Bokuto. 

Daisho calls when the order is done. “Bokuto! Caffeinated Wet Salad!!” 

“It's a matcha latte,” Kuroo explains as Bokuto takes his first sip. He leans along the counter, the jut of his wrist holding up his jaw as he watches the other man drink up. “I threw in a kale shot for some extra greens, and honey to sweeten it up. The original version uses coconut milk, but I made sure Daisho used regular for yours. It’s a little more like a steamed milk smoothie.” 

“It's good,” Bokuto gasps. He sounds genuine in his reply. His smile is more subdued today, and yet it beams almost brighter than his usual grins. 

“That's good,” Kuroo says, lifting off the counter. He wringes his hands in his pockets, out of sight, and only manages to nod when Bokuto takes his leave. 

Across the room Kenma watches the window, his ps vita forgotten on the table. 

* * *

Giving Bokuto his number shouldn't feel like a profound statement. Afterall, he _ technically _ already has Kuroo's, somewhere in the database of his cellphone. 

But Kuroo doesn't make a habit of leaving his numbers on patron's coffee cups. It feels dirty. It feels cliché. 

Bokuto makes him feel a little bit cliché, and his tongue ties too much when he thinks about asking him, “Text me sometime.” So instead he prepares the cup before Bokuto comes in, always now after the mid-morning rush, and makes sure to stash it by his water bottle under the register. 

“No wet salad?” Bokuto asks, dejectedly, consulting the chalkboard over Kuroo's wild hair. 

“‘Fraid not,” Kuroo says, pulling out the cup. “I got the kale in just for the special. But I can get you a matcha latte.” Bokuto makes a noise and Kuroo laughs. “I can make you a special wet salad next Friday. Maybe.” 

This gets Bokuto to perk up. 

But he neither calls nor texts Kuroo afterwards. 

* * *

“He’s definitely into you,” Kenma says as Kuroo buses the table directly behind him a few weeks later. “That’s why he keeps coming here.” 

Kuroo scoffs, pulling up beside his friend and resting a hand across his chest, directly over his heart. “Is this a confession, Kenma? Is that why _ you’re _always here?”

Kenma turns back to look up at him and Kuroo's not sure if it's just the lighting deepening the splotchy purple bruises under his eyes. “I like to drink coffee.” Kenma reaches for the mocha Kuroo had dropped off just before the morning lines and presses the straw to his lips, as if to prove his point. Kuroo bites his tongue to keep from telling him to go home and rest instead.

“So does Bokuto.”

Kenma hums. “I wonder.” He settles back in his seat, slumping over the table's edge and propping his arms up to play his DS from an upwards angle. Sun leans in through the window, brightens the blond ends of his dual toned hair. It’s grown longer. 

Kuroo frowns at his back. 

* * *

Kuroo’s bussing tables again the next day when he hears Kenma tell Bokuto, “You know it'd be less wasteful if you gave it away.” 

Over Bokuto's head the little bell chimes with every shift of the door when he hesitates at the entrance. “Huh?” 

“I'm saying,” Kenma drawls, “that you can give it away. To your coworker or something. Instead of tossing it.”

Kuroo tries not to show that he's listening, but he still slows his wiping motions on the table’s surface as if it'll somehow help his hearing.

“Wow!” Bokuto exclaims. “That's really smart, Kenma! I think Oikawa likes this stuff—thanks!” 

Kuroo crowds the window over Kenma's head as soon as the door shuts for good. He swats at the other's shoulder as he watches Bokuto jog quickly across the street. 

“What does that _ mean?” _ Kuroo asks _ . _

“I told you,” Kenma sighs. He looks back and up at Kuroo, blinking slowly. “He's been coming here for _ you.” _

It is so very cliché to feel like his insides have been invaded with butterflies, but it is so _ very, very _accurate. Kuroo can barely breathe with them fluttering around. 

* * *

Bokuto doesn't bother sipping his coffee anymore, Kuroo notices. His orders become more typically non-typical. Sometimes Kuroo catches him looking down at his hand and he has to wonder if Bokuto writes the order there rather than on paper to be inconspicuous.

It doesn't work. But it is so very _ endearing. _

He catches Bokuto lingering at Kenma's usual table a couple of weeks later just before closing time, basking in the early autumn sun by the window. Outside the trees have started to turn, bright and cheerful with their golden yellows and magentas and burnt oranges. Kuroo stealthily sashays himself over to the table, sweeping along the floor he'd already cleaned. 

"Where's Kenma?" He asks. 

Bokuto blinks up at him. "I dunno," he tells Kuroo. "He just said I should sit here." 

"He _ did _?" Kuroo wonders. He has to bite his lip to keep his grin from growing wild. He hopes Kenma's home, and resting instead of playing games. 

Kuroo keeps busy sweeping the floor nearby. Bokuto eventually rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and Kuroo leans his chin on the top of the broom, admiring the full scale of colors bursting along Bokuto's toned arm muscles. He breathes in. "Do they mean anything?"

Bokuto's halfway to devouring a fork full of lettuce when he looks up at Kuroo quizzically. 

"Your tattoos," he clarifies. There's a not so small part of him that wonders if he could get away with touching them if he asked, tracing the bold lines of an owl's silhouette, or following along the broad strokes of a non-distinct, black band that circles the thickest part of Bokuto’s arm. Kuroo imagines that his skin would feel warm under his fingers, that Bokuto naturally runs hot. Probably gives the sort of hugs you can't help but melt into and Kuroo's already made peace with the fact that he's too far gone to ever be saved now.

"Oh!" Bokuto appraises his own arm and points at a few of them. "Some of them," he admits. There's no shame in his voice and Bokuto points at a few of the tattoos, "This one Akashi gave me. Says I remind him of owls!"

Bokuto hoots in laughter and Kuroo titters because he can kind of see why. 

"This one I let Oikawa do," he says, tracing along the image of a vine wrapping about his forearm. It almost looks real to Kuroo.

"Akashi also works with you guys, too, yeah?" 

When his chin can't quite stand the protrusion of the broom handle any longer, Kuroo plops into the empty seat. It feels weird to not look at Kenma on the other side, smiling up at him from his game console. But he can't complain about the new view. The sterling silver of Bokuto’s eyebrow ring catches the last rays of the setting sun; his white hair stands out so starkly against the colorful world, save for his dark roots, and his grin disturbs the butterflies in Kuroo's chest. 

"Yeah," he says enthusiastically. "Akashi runs the shop with me. Mostly does the boring stuff. I'm lucky to have him." Bokuto stabs his still full fork into the plastic container Kuroo doesn't recognize as being from their café and finally takes a large bite. He grimaces. 

Kuroo hides his laughter in the palm of his hand. 

"So do you guys trade tattoo jobs or do you get work done at other shops?" Kuroo asks. Bokuto takes a long swig of the matcha latte he'd come in for earlier. Kuroo watches him lick along his teeth, a valiant effort displayed along his face to keep from showing his displeasure at the taste. 

"'Course," he says. "I've got a few from other artists." Bokuto points at some of the others pieces on his sleeve. Then he points at the ones he'd shown Kuroo earlier. "These were their audition pieces." 

"Wait." Kuroo is unabashedly taken aback. "Seriously? You made them ink you as an _ audition? _Before you knew how they worked? Isn't that… terrifying?" 

Bokuto blinks at him, as if the thought had never crossed his mind before now. "Maybe." He shrugs, taking another bite of his food. There's some seared meat in this forkful, Kuroo can see. This seems more palatable to Bokuto. "But I only hire people I can trust. If I can't trust them to give me a proper tattoo, how can I trust them with clients?" 

"Fair," Kuroo concedes. Bokuto hums loudly and eats another meat-filled bite. Kuroo eyes the container. Most of what's left is bright green. There's no croutons and very sparse amounts of cheese decorating the top. "Whatcha got there?" 

Bokuto wrinkles his nose. "Oikawa was in charge of lunch today. He's on this health kick. Says I gotta live long enough for him to become famous." 

Kuroo throws his head back and laughs. At some point Daisho drops off the keys with him, reminding him to lock up before he goes.

"All day's been busy," Bokuto whines. "This is the first time I've gotten to eat _ anything!" _

He watches Bokuto pick dejectedly at the lettuce and Kuroo finally offers, "Do you want me to make you a sandwich instead?" 

Bokuto's eyes light up as if the sun had taken to hiding behind them and Kuroo laughs. 

He makes the least fancy sandwich he can get away with, stacking it with the loose lunch meats and deli cheeses in the fridge and deciding against adding any greens. It's a decent sized meal, but Bokuto wolfs it down like an hors d'oeuvre. He swallows thickly but doesn't bother to wash it down with his latte. He does remember to thank Kuroo exuberantly. 

It's after this that Bokuto takes notice of the lack of anyone else. "Hey! Are you guys closing?" 

Kuroo looks up at the sign on the door. Daisho remembered to change it to _ Closed _. That must have been an hour ago now. He tells Bokuto with a wistful wave of his hand, "Don't worry about it. I always hang out for a little while after my shift." 

Bokuto looks down at the table. "With Kenma?" He grabs at the straw wrapper from his drink still on the table, crumpling it and separating little bits off from the whole. 

It's an innocent question. Kuroo doesn't think he _ means _anything by it. Probably nothing. His pulse rabbits under his skin and Kuroo stares down at the table, too. "Yeah." 

"Is he your—" 

"Best friend," comes out too fast. Kuroo feels his face flush and he hides half of his blush with what he hopes is a casual lean into his hand. He's glad, for once, about the poor lighting and how early the sun takes it's leave this time of the year because he hopes Bokuto can't see how red he absolutely must look right now.

And it's worse when Bokuto perks up _ immediately _ from his answer. "It'd be cool," he continues, voice bellowing in the quiet around them, "if you had a boyfriend."

Kuroo frowns. 

Bokuto sprinkles the pieces of straw wrapper into his unfinished drink. It looks like snow on a lush green hill. 

"Boyfriends are cool," Bokuto tacks on cheerily. 

"Sure," Kuroo agrees slowly. "Very cool. If you have one." 

"I don't!" 

Kuroo quirks an eyebrow. "But that would be cool," he laments. "_ If _ you had one." 

Bokuto nods.

"But you don't." 

Bokuto shakes his head enthusiastically. 

"And neither do I." 

"Which is very cool," Bokuto says. He sits up a little more in his chair, feet kicking at the middle column of the table. “Got any tattoos?” 

"Don't got any of those either. Always thought about getting a black cat, though." Kuroo lifts up his arm and points directly at his rib cage. "There, maybe." 

Bokuto whistles, appraising the area with a sharp gaze. "That's brave for your first one." He grabs a half finished tube of salad dressing from the plastic container. He drenches the rest of his greens in it. 

"I like to take risks sometimes," Kuroo says, grinning.

"I'd do it for you," Bokuto offers. "If you want." 

"Maybe," Kuroo decides. "I'll think about it."

He watches Bokuto try another bite of his forgotten lunch turned dinner. The extra dressing doesn't seem to mask the taste of healthy vegetables, as evident from his grimace. "Just throw it out," he tells Bokuto, chuckling. 

"I don't wanna waste it," he says, pouting. "Food is precious."

Kuroo snorts. He wonders how Bokuto can throw out drinks, but can't summon the courage to give up on food he hates just as much. Kuroo procures the fork from Bokuto and takes a healthy stab of the salad. He gags on the first bite. 

"That's so bitter!" 

"I know!" 

"There's only one way to fix this," Kuroo decides, and swiftly he picks up the plastic container and shoves as much of the greens as will fit into the already ruined latte cup. It all looks like a lump of green mush.

“Now it's actually a wet salad,” Bokuto breathes, looking absolutely awed.

“_ With _ caffeine,” Kuroo agrees. 

The golds of Bokuto's eyes gleam. Kuroo thinks they're prettier than jewelry, especially when they catch stray moonbeams just so. 

"What else can we put in?" Bokuto wonders. 

It's a dangerous question.

Kuroo finds a half eaten piece of cake he'd left in the fridge last week. Bokuto dumps a packet of pepper and salt each into the plastic cup. He adds a dash of Tabasco sauce. Kuroo dumps half the leftover biscotti crumbs from the heavy glass jar over the pastry display, some loose leaf tea bits, and a couple counts of sprite to top the whole thing off.

“Let's try it,” Bokuto says, excitedly. Kuroo looks at their concoction, the spongy cake doused in tea leaves and hot sauce looks unappetizing. And that's being kind.

So he blames it on Bokuto's charisma when he smirks back and tells him, “You first.”

It's hours since Kuroo should have locked up before they're leaving together, laughing too loudly for the hour of the night. It is still too soon when they part ways at the end of the block. 

* * *

He finally meets Akashi on his next shift. He's diligent, giving Kuroo his business card as soon as it's his turn in line to order. 

Akashi gets a medium drip coffee, black, and tells Kuroo, "Bokuto gets very depressed if he doesn't eat properly." 

Kuroo presses his lips together, remembering the face Bokuto had been pulling as he pushed around all that lettuce. He hums in lieu of a stronger answer, because Kuroo can't trust himself to not accidentally laugh in Akashi's face at the memory.

"So thank you."

When Akashi takes his coffee to go, Kuroo decides he likes the guy. In part because he leaves a decent tip in the practically empty jar by the register. 

And also because he hesitates before leaving, threading his fingers over the girth of his warm cup and smiles delicately at Kuroo when he says, "I see why Bokuto likes you so much." 

* * *

"Where've you been?" Kuroo asks one day at closing time, taking his usual seat across from Kenma. The other looks up at him. He hasn't been resting, Kuroo realizes with a pang of guilt in his gut. He can see it in Kenma's eyes, in the bruises weighing on his lower eyelids, darkened by the shadow of his lashes.

"Around," Kenma says. He turns up the volume on his game and Kuroo doesn't recognize the music of this one. "Bokuto seems nice," he tacks on slowly. 

Kuroo smiles fondly. "Yeah." 

"He's dense, though," Kenma continues. He meets Kuroo's eyes again for a second. "So if you want something to happen you should just tell him."

Kuroo eyes the tattoo parlor across the street. Even at an angle, he can make out a few silhouettes still lingering at the door front, but the neon Open sign has been switched off. "I know."

"Did you remember to switch to Closed?" 

Kuroo looks up at the front door beside him, leaning just a bit over to read the back of the sign. "Nah. I forgot."

* * *

Kuroo decides to take the proverbial dive the next Sunday. He schedules a half day off from work, serving only the morning rush before he skirts out. He only has to jog across the street and walk two stores down into the tattoo parlor. 

Oikawa lifts back his drink when Kuroo walks in, the name _ Bokuto _ on very prominent, very purposeful display. Kuroo recognizes his own handwriting. "You're the 11 o'clock?" 

"Sure am," Kuroo says, plopping into the cushioned bench of the waiting room. Oikawa glowers at him from the stool behind the front desk. "You know I almost didn't recognize you," Kuroo lies, widening his eyes on purpose,"without your _ other half." _

Oikawa's glower deepens. 

"I like your ink," Kuroo finally says, gesturing the length of his arm to indicate his tattoo sleeve. "You have nice taste in art." He adds, "And what you did on Bokuto's arm is amazing. It practically looks real."

Oikawa looks down at the plethora of flora inked on his skin and finally beams at Kuroo. "You make the best coffee in town," he admits, taking another sip from the _ Bokuto _cup. 

They're already friends before the shop door opens with a sharp jingle of the bell at the top. Kuroo cuts his gaze to Bokuto stumbling through the entrance, the apology at the tip of his tongue visibly dying and being replaced with a loud, "Kuroo?!" 

"Surprise!" Kuroo responds. For added emphasis he chooses to perform a very short concert of _ jazz hands. _

Bokuto beckons him to the back of the shop. It's exactly how Kuroo’s always imagined a tattoo parlor to look— a chaotic mess of instruments and colors. Displays of generic designs for people to choose from sit in frames in multiple sections of the parlor, some photographs of their best work on client’s taking up the rest of the walls. Most of the work stations are separated by walls without doors, like studio apartments. The first two are relatively contained when Kuroo glances inside on their way past. He guesses Akashi's is the cleanest.

"This one," Bokuto says, and Kuroo follows him into the farthest room. It's the messiest of the lot, by far. Ink is splattered on every surface, which he _ thinks _might be a design choice, and tools haphazardly placed back in their rightful positions. It is almost exactly what Kuroo expected. 

Bokuto walks over to a stack of notepads and takes one from the top. "Where exactly did you want it?" 

Kuroo realizes his mistake when he has to lift up most of the right side of his shirt and expose half his body just to point out the exact area on his ribcage. Bokuto maps out the skin, his fingers and pencil tickling wherever they make contact. 

"A black cat, right?" Bokuto looks up at him. Kuroo's never seen him so serious, and while he thinks Bokuto looks best when he's laughing, this is a _ very nice _change. Kuroo nods. "Got a reference?" 

Kuroo shakes his head. "Artist's choice?" Bokuto gives him a confident smirk.

He gets to watch Bokuto sketch for a while. Kuroo admires the way he focuses on his art, pink tongue curling about his upper lip like right out of a cartoon. His eyes are sharp where they watch every line, his strokes purposeful, graceful. It is, honestly, enchanting.

Bokuto fills a whole page with selections of little black cats that fit the same amount of space. He holds open the sketch book for Kuroo to puruse, a giant, proud grin stretched along his face as he watches Kuroo glance around, memorized. 

He selects a very simple, elegant looking cat from the group. 

"Alright, let's transfer it on." Bokuto beckons Kuroo closer. He goes to lift Kuroo's shirt for him, but hesitates, looking up for permission. 

Kuroo might die before they even get to the actual tattoo. If he isn't dead already. Heaven, for all he knows, could be a tattoo parlor. There's no rule against it.

He manages to nod finally. Bokuto beams up at him, a dusting of pink along his face and the tips of his ears, scrunching up Kuroo's shirt until it can be pinned in place by his arm. After the paper has been thoroughly drenched with a wet sponge onto Kuroo's skin, Bokuto pushes back with the paper rattling in his hand, rolling along the linoleum floor a little distance with an, "Aha!"

He points Kuroo to the mirror set up on the wall by the door. On the area he had designated before is now a little black cat, looking as if it could be walking daintily along his skin. 

“I'm in love,” Kuroo gawks, simply awed. When the words register, his mirror image flushes. “With the tattoo design. It's great,” he clarifies. It is probably an unnecessary addition, but Bokuto flushes right along with him and says, “Let’s get you inked, then!”

Kuroo hopes it is from more than pride. 

He doesn't know how long he lays in the chair. His arm burns from being hoisted over his head. Kuroo feels dizzy from the little needles jabbing along his sensitive skin and raw from every swipe of a cloth Bokuto takes to wipe away some of the ink. 

“You know,” Kuroo swallows. The brightness of the lights on the ceiling makes his vision blurry. He tries to sound calm while raising his voice to be heard over the humming machines, “It's ok if you don't like coffee.”

Bokuto's eyes slip up to meet his, wild and golden. Kuroo presses on, "You can still come by just to see me." 

Searing, white hot pain cuts up further along the length of his rib cage. Bokuto's alarmed eyes are almost as terrifying as the sight of the still working needle whirling in his hands. 

“I can fix it!” he shouts and Kuroo isn't really sure what he's agreeing to, but he manages to say, “Ok.”

* * *

It's quite a while longer when Bokuto finally pushes back, rubbing sweat from his brow. Kuroo wonders if the stud hurts when he touches it, or when he moves his face a lot. Bokuto's very expressive. 

"Go take a look," he encourages Kuroo, waving him towards the mirror with his hand.

Bokuto stays seated, sanitizing his work station while Kuroo gets to his feet. Everything is sore, his feet wobbly from staying sedentary in such an unnatural position. His left foot is definitely asleep, but the pain of walking on it is nothing compared to the sore ache in his side. 

But it's worth it, he surmises in the mirror. Every _ second _. The product is still raw, the skin raised and reddened with irritation, but Kuroo can say the tattoo far exceeds any of his expectations. 

The simple black cat is still there, but along with it is now a spaceship hovering a few inches above, little traction beams making it look as if the cat is about to be sucked on board.

"Holy shit," Kuroo breathes. 

"Right?" Bokuto's image jumps up next to his own reflection, smiling madly at his art. Kuroo can feel his body warmth from this close and he almost leans into it. "Gotta admit the spaceship was inspired by Oikawa's kind of shit. He's got a toy just like it at his station."

Bokuto's eyes are sparkling when they meet Kuroo's gaze in the mirror. His heart thunders in his chest. 

“Yeah,” Kuroo murmurs, partially to himself. “Definitely in love.” 

Bokuto gives him another high arch of his brow and a cocky grin. “With the tattoo? I told you man, I could fix it.” 

Kuroo grins back. His mouth looks a little lopsided in his own reflection. "That too," he admits. 

Bokuto's grin falls into an unsure smile. Kuroo averts his eyes to a paint splatter curling itself into a corner of the room. It makes him think of an octopus, using all its tentacles to keep from falling into a void. It keeps his head preoccupied when he asks, "How much is this gonna be on top?" 

"What?" Bokuto laughs. It's his full body sort and Kuroo's heart feels wobbly listening to it so closeby. "Don't worry about." He wipes his hands on his jeans and Kuroo looks at him, startled. "I messed it up, so I had to fix it. Plus you let me experiment." He claps a hand on Kuroo's shoulder. "If you're gonna insist, though, just pay what we agreed on for the cat." 

Bokuto leaves for a second, telling him to wait. He comes back with some bandages and supplies and works on treating the area. He tells Kuroo how to treat it at home as he tapes the bandages down, his fingers ghosting along Kuroo’s ribcage again as he makes sure to pat the edges flush to his side. Kuroo presses his lips to keep from laughing or crying, depending on which part of his body is being touched.

Finally he manages to get out a coherent, "Do you want to get dinner?" 

Bokuto looks up at the clock on the wall. It's one of those antique kinds, a black cat with a ticking tail. It shows three but Bokuto says, "It's only four?" 

"Right," Kuroo says. He has to check his phone but it just confirms that is, actually, four in the afternoon. "But I figured it's the least I could do for the tattoo. Pay the artist in some way with what I'm saving on such an awesome piece." Kuroo grins. "But it's too late for lunch and you don't like coffee or _ tea _, so... Dinner?" 

Bokuto pauses. He comically raises the studded eyebrow up high at Kuroo. 

"Unless Oikawa is also named Bokuto," Kuroo mentions.

Bokuto swallows like Kuroo would imagine a bird before its natural predator. It fuels him to push on. "So I think we both know by this point you've been coming to my café for something other than coffee." Kuroo let's his shirt fall back down as Bokuto gives out a very strained, "_ Kuroo." _

Kuroo sits back down on the tattoo chair, crossing his legs. He doesn't know how he still manages to speak so clearly when his heart is pulsing in his throat. "Which means maybe you like something there that's _ not _ coffee or tea."

Bokuto wrinkles his nose.

"So." Kuroo switches his legs and hopes it doesn't show how much he's shaking. Bokuto's eyes are still fastened to his face, cheeks full blown red. "I thought it would be," he pauses, "_ cool _ if you wanted to get dinner together." 

"Like a—" Bokuto absolutely looks like he's reading through the lines in real life, his expression melting from embarrassed and confused to _ exuberant— " _a date? With you?" 

Kuroo doesn't bother to hide his own smile. He doesn't think it's possible. "Definitely. I know a good, dry salad place." 

It's a joke and it's worth it to see how fast Bokuto's lips fall into a frown. "No salads." 

"Question," Kuroo starts on their way out. He waves back at Oikawa through the window as the bell tolls their departure. 

"Yeah?"

"You don't happen to have any mouth piercings you've been hiding?" He wonders. Their fingers brush together and Kuroo uses his sudden burst of bravery to clasp Bokuto's hand in his own. He is delighted when Bokuto threads their fingers together. 

The other's perplexed face is nothing short of adorable. "Nope." He looks full on at Kuroo, almost stopping them in the street. "Do you?" 

Kuroo hums. "Maybe you'll get the chance to find out." Bokuto gapes at him and does actually come to a full stop this time. His eyes look absolutely _fond _when Kuroo laughs, pulling him along to their destination. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first BoKuroo and I love these boys so much I hope I did them a little bit of justice at the very least TT 
> 
> I also have very little actual knowledge of the tattoo process except from television and some quick research, so if anything seems blatantly Not Real please feel free to correct me! I do know the mouth piercings getting stuck is a myth as far as I could see, though. It was just. So necessary. Let's call it a fluke for fiction haha.


End file.
